


The Flirt Part 1

by KylaBosch



Series: The Flirt [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Friendship, Romance, comment meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaBosch/pseuds/KylaBosch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is attracted to Sandor, especially because of his scars. She immediately attempts to woo him and Sandor doesn't know how to react. This was written for littlebirdhound who requested this prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Think I Like You

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta Readers:** A huge thank you to Weshallflyaway for your constant help even in light of your crazy schedule! =D  
>  **Other Notes:** In this AU Sandor is a teenager so as to maintain a closer age range (for the sake of my sanity).  
>  **Disclaimer:** Clearly none of this belongs to me up to and including quotes taken from the novels (because the chapter takes place during particular scenes). All of this belongs to GRRM am just borrowing his muses for a bit and promise to return them in one piece (and in better spirits than he's left them in haha) ;)

The Hound did not know who was behind the jape, though a few names came to mind. He was certain it began the day he and the other members of the King’s entourage arrived at Winterfell. Sandor was well accustomed to people staring at him, be it in disgust, horror, or amazement; a freak show to be gawked at.   
  
The Northern folk, unlike their southron counterparts, were less troubled by his burns and more curious to his person. Sandor presumed it had much to do with being raised in such a harsh environment. His grandmother often spoke of the North in loving tones, but she respected its merciless cruelty as well. It took a certain sort of character to survive the unforgiving land; yet these people did just that, and they made it a home.   
  
Unfortunately, not all the northerners were so respectful.  
  
As soon as he arrived in Winterfell, Sandor found himself under the attentive gaze of Lord Stark’s eldest daughter. Often when she believed he was not looking, Sandor would catch the young lady stealing glances at him the way the southron women often did. Only instead of looking away with the usual expression of revulsion upon being caught, her cheeks would warm and her lips would curl into a shy smile. It was the same sort of pandering doe-eyed look that most ladies gave when they found a man to be comely. The Hound may have been many things, but handsome or dashing certainly was not one of them. Initially, he believed the stolen glances given were meant for the repulsive little prince, until he caught her watching him when there was no one else around. The unexpected discovery left little room for doubt, and plenty more for confusion.   
  
Just when he certain the young maiden had had her fun, she found the courage to approach him while he was alone preparing his horse for a boar hunt with the King and his men. Clad in a simple, but pretty, gown of blue and wearing a sweet smile she quietly neared. Taking pause he watched her with wary eyes and a curled lip; waiting for her little game to finally reach its end.   
  
‘What do you want, girl?’ he rasped, momentarily forgetting that she was, if nothing else, a nobleman’s daughter.   
  
‘My pardons Ser, I meant no offense,’ she stammered. Her cheeks were flushed, and her fingers fiddled nervously with the sleeves of her dress. ‘I sought only to wish you luck on the hunt. Prince Joffrey speaks well of your skills and-’  
  
Annoyed by her genteel act, the Hound scowled as silenced her words. ‘Spare me your Sers. I am no knight. I spit on them, and their bloody vows.’  
  
The girl shrank back to his harsh words, her expression both apologetic and embarrassed. ‘I apologise, My Lord, I was not aware,’ she tried again.   
  
Sandor gave a snort of disgust. ‘Seven hells, girl. I’m no Lord,’ he rasped in annoyance. Hung-over from the previous night’s drinking, and already running late, the last thing he needed was some stupid girl peeping in his ear. To her credit, most women would have long since run away at his harsh words, or his furious glare, the Stark girl was not so easily deterred.  
  
‘If you will not permit me to call you Ser, or Lord, then by what name should I call you?’ she politely inquired, her musical voice startling him from his dark thoughts. Sandor remained with his back turned away from her as he continued to strap his saddle to his black courser, Stranger. ‘Surely, you cannot expect me to call you _The Hound,_ and I refuse to call you _dog,’_ she tittered. He could feel her bright blue eyes watching him intently.   
  
‘Why not? Everyone else does,’ he growled, turning to face her, uncertain If this was another part of her game, the Hound would have none of it.  
  
The petite beauty frowned, her eyes oddly disappointed. ‘Is there truly no name by which I may properly address you?’ The pretty bird had been trained well in the ways of etiquette, a rarity amongst other northern girls he noted.   
  
‘Bugger me,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Call me Sandor if you must,’ he rasped. With luck, his answer would satisfy her enough to leave him to his business, it was not to be. The girl’s blue eyes lit up, as a smile graced her porcelain features. With all the dignity of nobility she proceeded to properly curtsy him. Had he not been so stunned by the gesture he might have laughed.  
  
‘It is a pleasure to have properly met you, Sandor. I wish you much luck on the hunt. May your aim be steady and true,’ she stated in kind tones.   
  
Turning on her heels, she silently departed from the stables, entirely ignorant of the speechless state she had left him in.


	2. Unexpected Revelation

He had only meant to scare the Stark girl, to put a little healthy fear into her in the hopes of ending her game whatever it may have been.  
  
Sansa, as the prince called her, had been drawn to the arrival of the _honour guard,_ as if that was not a jape in and of itself. Deciding it was time to end her foolish mockery of him, Sandor quietly followed her from a safe distance waiting for the right moment to make his presence known.  
  
Fortunately, the young maiden was thoroughly entranced by the sight of Ser Ilyn Payne and entirely unaware of his approach. The expression of horror she wore when she stared at the pock faced knight was only too amusing. If the old executioner could terrify her so easily the Hound was confident he not need try very hard to get his point across. As if reading his thoughts, the elderly knight slowly turned to face the girl. Her eyes grew wide like saucers as she instinctively took a step back bumping straight into the approaching Hound who immediately placed a gloved hand on her shoulder to steady her. Even through the leather of his glove he could feel her tremble and it made him smirk. For a girl born under the sigil of a wolf, Sansa Stark was as flighty as a little bird.  
  
‘You are shaking, girl. Do I frighten you so much?’ he rasped with a wry grin.  To his surprise, when she whirled about to face him her blue eyes readily met his sharp gaze. A shy smile briefly lit up her features as she gazed up at him; cheeks turning rosy.  
  
‘My pardons, Ser,’ she apologized in shy tones. Though amused by her awkwardness, Sandor could not ignore the strange way she was looking at him. About to mock her for being such a coward he was promptly silenced at the approach of others who caught sight of her dire-wolf cub. Protective of the creature, the petite beauty wrapped her arms around the large dog, her expression wary and frightened at the audience that gathered around her. Prince Joffrey, ever eager to play the role of the concerned betrothed, came to her aid. The girl politely permitted his rescue, thanking him like any proper lady would. Despite her manners, he could tell she was not entirely at ease with the boy. Had he not known better, Sandor could have sworn she looked almost disappointed when his master’s son ordered him to leave as he was _frightening_ her.  
  
Departing for a field where the soldiers did their regimental training, Sandor overheard the Stark girl’s polite correction of Joffrey’s assessment. ‘It was not him, my sweet prince,’ she said in that melodic voice of hers, ‘it was the other one.’  
  
The revelation made him smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy sweet crap! I just wanted to give a huge thank you to all of you who took the time to read my tale and for being so sweet as to leave me reviews and kudos!! I am completely blown away by all of your support! <3


	3. Secret Shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: There are quotes in this chapter that have been taken directly from the novels due in part to the scene it pertains. Just a reminder I own NOTHING! Not even this prompt is mine! XD

The Hound could not say what drove him to tell Sansa the secret of his burns. First he blamed the wine, then himself for drowning in it. When it came to dornish red sour he had no self-control. He was only supposed to escort Sansa back to her chambers, as per the young prince’s command. In her blue eyes, the Hound saw that the young maiden was relieved the prince chose to forego the honour of guiding his betrothed back to her chambers. Sandor surmised that Sansa had a change of mind about young Joffrey when the prince and his mother demanded her beloved pet dire wolf be put to the sword.  
  
With a smile that might have been considered coy had it been directed at anyone else, the little bird offered her hand to him. ‘May I have the pleasure of your company, Sandor?’ she asked with all the manners and sweetness, of a well-bred maiden.  
  
Taking her hand so as to help her from her seat, Sandor watched as she rose to her feet with all the grace of royalty. It were as though she had personally requested him to be her escort, instead of the prince having ordered his dog to do it. ‘Come, you’re not the only one needs sleep. I’ve drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow,’ he said, laughing, as he shook his head; it was all too much. As much as the little bird’s merciless game disgusted him, the Hound knew his place, so he refrained calling her bluff.  
  
Sansa followed him in silence. Clearly, she did not place much credence in his drunken statement, and was even less fearful of his harsh words. She was braver than she looked, he had to give her that much.  
  
‘You rode gallantly today, Sandor,’ she said, breaking the quiet that had settled between them. Sansa, ever the self-respecting lady, was attempting to make polite conversation, it only served to annoy him further. Caring little for her feelings the Hound mocked her, his words harsh and unforgiving.  
  
When Sansa refused to take the bait, Sandor succumbed to his rage, grasping the girl firmly by the chin, before demanding she take her fill, to look at him in all of his hideous glory. Her eyes grew wide with shock at his touch and his demands, yet she did not scream, nor cry out for him to let her go. It was then he realize his mistake. Sansa never had a problem looking upon his face. In fact, the girl could not stop staring at his marred flesh. It were as though it held some great secret only she knew how to decipher. The only time she ever looked away was whenever he caught her staring, though as of late she seemed to be growing bolder, casting him sweet smiles before shyly looking away.  
  
‘It is not your face that terrifies me,’ she whispered, her small hands trembling in fear. ‘It is your eyes, they’re so full of hate and rage,’ she explained. Her eyes wavered under his sharp gaze, but grew steady upon falling to his marred features. Startled by her blunt honesty, the Hound instinctively put out the torch he carried, no longer comfortable with her watching him. Only then did he speak of his greatest, and best kept secret, the mystery of his scars.  
  
He never did have any self-control when it came to dornish sour.  
  
When his words ran dry he fell silent, feeling furious and disgusted with himself for having bleated like some dying lamb to this perfectly beautiful stranger. Shrouded in the dark, Sandor tried to still his thoughts, crouched over as though he were some down trodden upon dog. Some part of him hoped Sansa would run off, call for a guard, even simply wander off across the field, anything to be rid of his presence. A greater part of him knew that she would do no such thing. Sansa Stark had more wolf in her than most realized.  
  
Suddenly, he felt the light brush of her fingertips slipping around his back, and the weight of her brow resting on his cloaked shoulders as she drew him into a gentle embrace. He could not remember the last time he had experienced such a simple gesture of affection, only that it had been long before Gregor had ruined his face.  
  
‘He was no true knight,’ she whispered as he grew perfectly still to her touch. Stunned, and a little frightened by the emotions it invoked, Sandor threw back his head and gave a mighty roar. Startled by the sound, Sansa stumbled, nearly losing her footing. Quick to grasp her by the arm so she would not fall, Sandor helped her regain her step. When their eyes met in the pale moonlight, he broke the silence that had settled between them.  
  
‘No, he was no true knight,’ he growled. It was the only way he knew how to thank her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I would like to pass along my thanks to all you wonderful readers who have offered your support and kind words to this tale. It is greatly appreciated! =D


	4. The Favour

It was evening when Sansa cornered him in one of the Red Keep’s many hallways. Sandor had just finished his duties and was intent on visiting one of the many local wine sinks. With his name spoken so sweetly on her full lips and a smile so radiant that it held him captive, she presented him with the blue ribbon. ‘It is for you,’ she kindly chirped. The little bird was even better motley than the Queen.   
  
Often Sandor would witness the rich and powerful unleashing their perverse mockeries on the pitiful and the poor. It was a common source of entertainment for those who had far too many titles, dragons, and wine to do with. It was years since he had been the victim of such games; the last one who tried did not live to see the morn. It had not been his first kill, and certainly was not his last either. The rich and powerful feared the Hound nearly as much as they feared his wretched brother. Clearly, the girl had not heard the rumours or tales of his ferocity. Why else would the little bird continue to play as though she were besotted with him? He did not know what infuriated him more, the fact she would not let the game end, or the fact some part of him almost wished it were real.   
  
‘What’s this for?’ he rasped staring at the ribbon as though it were a weapon, not a prize to be held.   
  
‘It’s my hair ribbon, I want you to have it…to wear as a favour,’ Sansa stammered, struggling to meet his gaze, as her porcelain cheeks flushed a rosy red.   
  
As a boy he used to dream of such a moment; him as some regal noble knight receiving the favour of a pretty maiden whose heart he held and cherished. That was a lifetime ago, before Gregor burned away all his dreams and hopes for the future, before he learned the truth about knights and their _noble_ ways. The young man knew the truth and he could take it no longer.   
  
‘Seven bloody hells! Who put you up to this, girl?’ he growled. Stunned by his outburst, she gave him a look of confusion that was so well done, Sandor almost believed it to be sincere. ‘Answer me!’ he demanded in rage. The young maiden shrank back, her blue eyes filling with unshed tears. Yet she did not run away.  
  
‘No one, Ser, I swear by the old gods and the new!’ she pleaded, the blue ribbon shaking between her trembling fingers.   
  
‘I already told you, fuck your Sers. I’m no more a knight than I am a lord. Do I need to beat that into you?’ he threatened, despite knowing he would never intentionally hurt her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, as she glared up at him with indignation and hurt in her blue eyes.  
  
‘Why must you be so hateful? I only wanted for you to wear my favour in the tourney tomorrow, for luck,’ she stammered. ‘A simple refusal would have sufficed!’ she quipped before turning heel and departing back the way she had come.   
  
Sansa was either a very good motley, or she was as blind as new-born pup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Just wanted to say thank you to everyone for your kudo's, your kind words and for all the support you've given this tale. It means so much to me to know that all of you are enjoying this tale as much as I have writing it! Thank you!!! =D


	5. Unexpected Chivalry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Side note:** I've been asked this a few times so I figured I best clarify ^^ Sansa at this time is 13 she will be 14 by tales end. Sandor at this time is 16 (thus a 'man grown' by their society standards) he will be 17 by tales end.

The Hound did not know what possessed him to battle his brother Gregor, after the giant man had struck Ser Loras Tyrell off his steed. He cared little for the Knight of Flowers. He knew full well that Ser Loras had cheated; riding a mare that was clearly in heat. Yet it did not stop him from crying out to leave the young man be.   
  
Sandor knew nothing good could come of the fight. It were as though some part of him wanted a chance to prove himself, to let his brother know that the ugly pup had grown into an even uglier war hound. Or perhaps he was tired of standing by while the bullies beat on unworthy prey. No matter the reason, the Hound was swiftly reminded of all the reasons why his brother was a threat to be reckoned with. It did not stop him from feeling the rush of satisfaction upon seeing the flicker of surprise on Gregor’s face. Or the flush of rage that flashed in his eyes upon discovering his little brother held more of a challenge than his predecessors.   
  
‘Stop this madness! In the name of your King!’  
  
King Robert bellowed, forcing their battle to its abrupt end. Instinctively, Sandor dropped to his knee, his blade wedged deep into the dirt. A whet stone would have to mend that later. He knew better than to challenge a King’s order with disrespectful behaviour. As his brother stormed off in a fit of rage, Sandor silently rose to his feet.   
  
Promptly, he was joined by Ser Loras Tyrell, who though composed, was still a little pale from his near death experience. ‘I owe you my life. The day is yours, Ser,’ the young knight breathed in awe.   
  
‘I am no _Ser,_ Sandor scowled in disgust. Ignoring his protest, Ser Tyrell raised Sandor’s arm, announcing to the commons that Sandor Clegane was the official Champion of the tourney. Claiming the victory, and taking the reward was easy to accept. Receiving the love of both the small folk and nobles was another matter. The people, like the sheep they were, bleated cheers and shouts of joy at their new found Champion. Sandor, unfamiliar with such attention, knew not how to respond. He knew better than to believe it was real; their adoration, like everything else, was fleeting. By morning he would return to being the ugly and feared Hound and his _heroics_ of the day would be forgotten.  
  
Shifting uncomfortably where he stood, his eyes sheepishly roved over the cheering crowd. The little bird, seated front and center of the tilting grounds, had been the first to jump to her feet upon hearing Ser Tyrell’s announcement; her blue eyes bright with joy, as a beautiful smile graced her beautiful lips.   
  
When their eyes met, her smile grew even more radiant. There was no denying that it was he, and not the Knight of Flowers, who pleased her. For a fleeting moment Sandor imagined her adoration was sincere. That he was just like one of the _heroic knights_ from her fairy tales. That she was the beautiful maiden he had rescued from his evil brother.   
  
The passing thought was promptly forgotten; the little bird’s radiant smile was not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I would like to give a shout out to all the lovely readers who have given their 'kudos' to this piece and to everyone who has taken the time to read it and for all your lovely reviews! I am truly humbled by your kindness and constant support! <3


	6. Unwitting Betrayal

  
As a boy, Sandor wanted nothing more than the honour of being sworn into the Kingsguard. Once he believed only the most noble and skilled of knights were found worthy of wearing the white cloak. That was a lifetime ago, before the burns, before Gregor’s ointments, and before he learned that everything he believed in was nothing more than lies.   
  
Then the day came when his childhood dream became a reality. In stunned silence he listened as the Queen proudly announced that he would be _honoured_ with a white cloak of the Kingsguard. He did not know whether to retch or burst into laughter. The Queen Regent may have spoken the words, but the order was entirely King Joffrey’s.   
  
‘How do you like that, dog?’ the boy king asked. Had it not come at the cost of another’s livelihood it might have been a great honour. There was no honour in stealing another’s man’s white cloak. But then when had he ever given a damn about anyone’s honour? Considering the offer, his thoughts immediately turned to the past; to old dreams, ideals, and hopes long forgotten, all crushed by the weight of Gregor’s hands, and the searing hells of a brazier’s fire.  
  
‘Why not? I have no lands nor wife to forsake, and who’d care if I did?’ he rasped, with feigned indifference. His eyes then fell upon the red-haired beauty who watched with sorrow in her eyes. For the briefest moment, he wondered if he had been mistaken in his assessment. The thought was ignored, the girl was clearly mourning the departure of Ser Barristan the Bold, the last living legend of Westeros.   
  
‘But I warn you, I’ll say no knight’s vows,’ he growled, burying the strange feeling that he had just committed a betrayal.   
  
The little bird’s absence was noted shortly after. With her plea for her Father’s life having been heard, and Eddard’s life spared for the time being, Sansa had little reason to remain. Never could he have imagined that he was the reason for her sudden departure and the unshed tears seen in her blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me over these brief chapters I promise next week will be longer and definitely filled with UST Sansan moments ;)


	7. Wishes Were Horses

  
It had been a hard night of drinking and gambling when Sandor found himself retiring to the barracks. With the night still relatively young, Sandor debated the possibility of visiting one of Littlefinger’s many pleasure houses along the way. While many soldiers enjoyed a variety of women, there were only one or two ladies who had his patronage. With his winnings from the tourney, Sandor had more than enough coin to keep them tolerant of his presence. It had been some time since he had basked in the presence of a woman and like any young man he had needs that required sating from time to time.  
  
Lost to his thoughts, the Hound did not hear the light patter of dainty steps racing up the stairs just beyond the door he was entering. Just as he stepped onto the serpentine steps, a slender form pummelled into him. The force of the collision nearly sent them both toppling down the narrow stairway. Instinctively, he grasped the young maiden’s wrist to prevent her from falling, or taking him with her.  
  
‘It’s a long roll down the serpentine, little bird. Want to kill us both?’ he rasped laughing. ‘Maybe you do,’ he added in amusement. The little bird looked thoroughly startled, and a little embarrassed too. Releasing his grip from her wrist, he studied her for a moment as she sheepishly apologized for not being more mindful of her surroundings.  
  
‘I was returning from the godswood my Lord,’ she confessed. ‘I thought not to see you here. It’s a pleasant surprise,’ she added, with a sweet smile. ‘If you would be so kind as to escort me back to my chambers, I would be in your debt.’  
  
There it was again, the strange game he had come to hate so much. The wine in his belly, however, made it more tolerable. ‘And what’s Joff’s little bird doing in the godswood in the black of night?’ he demanded. No amount of wine in Westeros could convince him that her demure act was sincere.  
  
‘Praying, praying for my father…and for the king,’ she quietly added.  
  
‘Think I’m so drunk that I’d believe that?’ he challenged. Stepping forward, Sandor felt the stairs shift slightly under his feet. Silently, he cursed the flagons of wine he had drunk earlier. Focusing instead on the girl before him, the Hound could not help but note her exceeding beauty. Lady Sansa was as lovely as the Maiden, if not more so.  
  
‘You look almost a woman. . . face, teats, and you’re taller too, almost…’ his rasped taking in her form with much appreciation. ‘Ah, you’re still a stupid little bird, aren’t you? Singing all the songs they taught you . . . sing me a song, why don’t you? Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids. You like knights, don’t you?’ he slurred.  
  
The hard slap Sansa gave across his good cheek that cleared his thoughts was well-deserved, even he could not deny it. Staring up at him, the little bird looked both horrified and shocked. He could not say if it was due to her actions or his words; Sandor imagined it was a bit of both. Her unexpected reaction was a reminder that beyond the pretty feathers and sweet songs she was still a wolf at heart.  
  
‘Are you so drunk, Ser that you mistake me for a back alley sully?’ she said in angry and hurt tones. Her eyes of water were now hard as ice. Anyone else, Sandor would have laughed in their face, but it was the little bird he had just wounded. Feeling every bit a fool, and yet too far in his cups to admit his folly, he immediately went on the defensive.  
  
‘I’m no knight, no more than I’m a lord. Do I need to beat that into you?’ he snapped. The steps beneath his feet shifted violently, leaving him reeling. ‘Gods, too much wine. Do you like wine, little bird? Rue wine? A flagon of sour red, dark as blood, all a man needs. Or a woman.’  
  
Sansa took another step back, this time there was no denying the concern and disappointment in her gaze. Some part of him felt a twinge of shame. It was not like him to behave so boorishly towards her. ‘Drunk as a dog, damn me,’ he said with a sheepish laugh, shaking his head; the closest he came to an apology. ‘You come now. Back to your cage, little bird. I’ll take you there. Keep you safe for the king,’ he mocked.  
  
The young woman breathed a soft sigh. ‘Perhaps it is I who should have you escorted back to the barracks, lest you find your death down the serpentine,’ she said in disappointed tones. He was about to make a colourful remark but thought better of it. He tasted blood on his lip, a silent reminder that even little birds had talons.  
  
‘Not that drunk, girl,’ he protested. She gave him a look that was far too polite to be openly sceptical. ‘Come then. The hour late, we’ll both need sleep.’ He did not need to explain himself further, she understood. With a sad smile, she slipped her hand through his arm. Not bothering to resist he merely glanced at her in dismay. Sandor could not understand why she insisted on continuing this farce. Did the little bird really believe so little affected him that she could endlessly play him for a fool and never fear reprisal? Even his masters knew enough to throw the dog a bone once in a while.  
  
He spoke not a word of his thoughts as they made their way back to her _cage._ Sansa made it all too easy to forget that he was merely a broken Hound and she a princess of the North. He promised himself that tomorrow he would end the façade, tonight he just wanted to dream.


	8. The 'Old Witch's' Kiss

It was the bread riots that marked the end of the of Sandor’s patience with Sansa’s on-going game of _come hither._   
  
It was not that she was ungrateful for his timely arrival, for she made it more than clear how happy she had been for his rescue. Not a night went by when he had not fallen asleep to the memory of her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, or the faint scent of her perfume that had lingered on his cloak.   
  
It was the way she treated him afterwards that left him feeling torn. After seeing his display of violence, the way he cut off her assailants hand and laughed, how merciless he had been with her attackers who wanted her flesh, Sansa, like most women, should have avoided him all together. He had behaved brutishly as he always had when it came to duty; there was a reason he had earned the name of Hound. Instead, the incident had made her bolder. Her coy games, once so subtle, were now played out in the open for all to see. Even his fellow _brethren_ in the kingsguard mocked him for it when they thought he was out of earshot. Sandor was certain Joffrey knew, though the prince never spoke a word about it. Believing it to be a test of another sort, he was mindful never to play along, no matter how he longed for it to be real. No matter how elaborate the illusion, he could not believe that it was anything more than a farce.   
  
That was all before today.   
  
Sansa and some of her friends were playing some sort of game involving blindfolds, and guessing whom they had caught. It was a rare sight to see Sansa in good spirits. Sandor presumed Joffrey’s recent need to be more involved in the preparations for Stannis Baratheon’s siege was the reason for it. It was the little bird who was blindfolded when Sandor had been passing through the gardens, on his way to bring a message to the queen. Distracted by the sound of her laughter, the Hound did not realize how close he was to her proximity, until she reached out and placed her hands onto the front of the boiled leather doublet he wore.   
  
‘Oh dear, my pardons, Ser. I thought you were another,’ she shyly exclaimed, quickly taking a step back.   
  
‘It’s alright little bird,’ he rasped, noting his slip a little too late. The young maiden grinned at the discovery, but kept her blindfold on.  
  
‘Sandor! You’re not supposed to give yourself away!’ she tittered. ‘I’m supposed to guess who you are first,’ Sansa chastised. Glancing away, he stiffly excused himself only to feel her hands lightly press against his cheeks. ‘There you are,’ she teased. ‘You know the rules if the old witch catches an unsuspecting player, she must give them a kiss.’ Sandor had witnessed princess Myrcella play the game on numerous occasions but never once had he heard such a rule. Judging by the girls who gasped in shock; this was news to them too.   
  
‘A northern tradition?’ he rasped, taking a step back.   
  
‘Perhaps,’ she said, with cheeks rosy and a shy smile on her full lips. Stepping forward Sansa rose to the balls of her feet as her lips lightly brushed against his marred cheek. Stunned by the action he stood frozen, as the girls gasped in disbelief, while murmuring to each other. Like Sandor, they had not taken the little bird at her word. Turning on her heels Sansa joined her gaggle of friends and was soon caught up in their games once more.  
  
Making haste to the Queen Regent’s solar the Hound struggled to put the moment behind him; despite wishing to dwell on it further. If the young king were to learn of his betrothed’s brazen behaviour, he would not be the only one who would lose their head. The time had come to end the game once and for all.   
  
It was two days before Sandor finally found the strength to end the dream, and a lifetime before he ever forgot the feel of her sweet lips on his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I would like to give a huge thank you to everyone who was kind enough to take the time to read my tale and leave reviews and/or kudos. I truly appreciate all your encouragement and support!! =D


	9. An Unexpected Truth

Sandor’s writing was atrocious, but it was legible enough to make its point.  
  
 _Meet me at godswood tonight. Come alone._  
  
The godswood was an unlikely meeting place; it was also the only way to ensure Varys and his many _little birds_ were nowhere near to overhear the conversation. Sansa came as he had hoped, though it was clear she had been expecting another much to Sandor’s concern, and irritation.  
  
‘Expecting another, little bird? Perhaps someone more comely, a handsome Florian?’ he mocked with a laugh.  
  
Sansa’s eyes were filled with trepidation as she shook her head. ‘My Lord, why have you brought me here?’ she asked in careful tones.  
  
Ignoring the misuse of title Sandor went straight to the matter. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game, girl. One that will end with both our heads on pikes,’ he warned.  
  
Sandor could still recall the King’s confrontation and demand for answers just as he could still see the ice in the Queen Regent’s green eyes and hear the chill in her voice when she too _politely_ inquired into the Stark girl’s actions in the royal garden’s two days prior. Drawing upon his rage, the Hound had given the best performance of his life. Joffrey may have been easy to fool, Cersei by contrast, was not. Though clearly unconvinced that Joffrey’s dog had confronted the girl about her little game, thus putting an abrupt end to the mockery, the queen regent permitted him leave with his head still intact. Sandor knew the matter was far from settled. There would be many eyes watching their every move, and ears listening to their every word. It was for Sansa’s safety alone, that he found the strength to end the illusion he had come to both love, and despise.  
  
‘I don’t understand what you are talking about?’ she stammered staring up at him in confusion. _Always the picture of loveliness, and innocence,_ he mused. As beautiful and gentle as she may have been with him, Sandor was certain it was little more than a game. Scowling, he glared at her, expecting, waiting for the confession that never came. She remained silent, her eyes falling to her hands as though she were fearful to meet his gaze, further infuriating him.  
  
‘Look at me!’ he growled in rage. Startled, she met his gaze briefly, fearful blue eyes piercing stormy grey orbs. Whatever it was she saw troubled her further, for immediately her eyes fell to her boots.  
  
‘My pardons—I never meant to cause offence, whatever it is that I’ve done, I beg your forgiveness,’ she pleaded, desperately hoping it was the answer he sought to hear; it was not.  
  
‘I said look at me!’ he shouted. This time he had her full attention. Meeting his gaze she remained silent, while the moonlight made the tears on her cheeks glisten. ‘You find this all amusing do you, girl?’ he demanded. Terrified, the little bird shook her head; confusion evident in her wide blue eyes. ‘I’m tired of you mocking me and I’m tired of your fucking games. I may be an ugly bugger, but I’m no bloody fool. Nor am I any less a man. You have your pound of flesh, now leave me be! Before you bloody well get us both killed!’ he growled.  
  
Sansa moved to slap him, this time Sandor was ready for it. Grasping her by the wrist he scowled. ‘I gave you the first one already. Try it again, and I’ll hurt you,’ he warned. It was then that he registered her tears and the silent sorrow that filled her blue eyes. At the sight of them, Sandor’s rage began to wane. Holding his gaze she shook her head as she softly whispered in a voice so low that it was almost missed.  
  
‘You won’t hurt me.’  
  
She was right, even in the height of his fury he could never lift a hand against her. ‘No, little bird, I won’t hurt you,’ he softly replied, feeling the last of his anger melt away.  
  
The silence that fell between them was heavy, as they both studied one another, gauging the other’s thoughts and contemplating what needed to be said. It was Sansa who first spoke.  
  
‘It was never my intention to mock you. Nor had I ever meant to make a jape of you, My lord,’ she softly said. The sincerity he saw in her eyes was unnerving, it was equally confusing.  
  
‘Then why all this?’ he rasped. Some part of him almost hoped it was all but a jape. It was better than the alternative; an attempt to take pity on him. The little bird, as always, never ceased to surprise, or amaze him.  
  
‘Because, I like you…a lot,’ she began. In the moonlight, he could see her tear stained cheeks flush as she shyly lowered her gaze. ‘When I first saw you back home, in Winterfell, I came to fancy you, your scars…They are pleasing to me. They are the mark of a brave, seasoned warrior like those spoken in Northern legends,’ she pressed on. ‘I wanted you to like me--to think me beautiful and clever. But then you would say all these awful things, and I was certain you hated me. Yet you saved my life, protected me from the king and you were always so gentle with me and I thought—I had hoped-’  
  
Torn between disbelief, indignation, and utter shock, Sandor burst into a fit of harsh laughter. ‘Either you’re drunk or you’re blind, girl. There is nothing comely about this face. Nor am I some noble warrior,’ he mocked. It was all just too wonderful and absurd to be real.  
  
‘This is not a jape!’ she snapped with a hurt frown. ‘I know you are neither handsome, nor highborn. That is not why I care about you, Sandor.’ Sansa did not raise her voice, it was not necessary, the weight of her words held him captive.  
  
‘Yes, I find you attractive. I’m sorry you choose not to believe me but I will not apologize for it. Nor will I apologize for my affections,’ she said with all the dignity of a queen. There was no denying the sincerity in Sansa’s voice, or the piercing honesty he saw in her beautiful blue eyes. After all she had witnessed all she had endured…  
  
‘Why?’ he whispered.  
  
‘There is more to you, than just the Hound. It is a shame that even you cannot see it,’ she gently answered as she reached out to touch his marred cheek with a small hand. Cautiously, he slipped his hand over hers to gently lower it from his cheek so as to hold it proper.  
  
‘What of the King, your betrothed? What of your brother, the other King? You didn’t think this through, did you, little bird? You’re a princess of the North, and I am the second born son of a minor house. There can be no happy ending to our union,’ he rasped in warning.  
  
Slipping her other hand into his own she gave him a smile that might have been mischievous had it been anyone else.  
  
‘Remember that night I ran into you on the Serpentine, when I claimed I was in the godswood to pray? In truth, I lied.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to give a shout out to the amazing Onborrowedwings/Weshallflyaway for all her patience and help in making this tale possible! I'd be lost without you girl! =D Also a massive thank you to all you lovely readers for taking the time out of your day to read my tale and for all the support you've given me through reviews, favs kudos etc. You are all amazing! =D


	10. An Old End and A New Beginning

Sansa’s confession came as no surprise to Sandor, though he was uncertain whether to be amused or frightened at the prospect of the drunken fool being his little bird’s supposed _rescuer._ Needless to say, Ser Dontos was the first to be removed from her escape. It took little to _convince_ the old drunk to end his clandestine meetings with Lady Sansa. Sandor had no interest in court games, but he knew the rules. Ser Dontos was a corrupt weak man, apt to sell her out for little more than a few dragons and a flagon of wine. With a few choice words, the Hound ensured that the old fool would bother Lady Sansa no longer, if only out of fear that his own head would find its way to the King’s _collection._   
  
The next course of action came easier for Sansa than it did for Sandor. The Hound had no friends, but he knew where all the true loyalties lay within the King’s court. It was not difficult to point the little bird in the right direction and let her take care of the rest. Her talent with words proved an invaluable asset.   
  
Joffrey, ever foolish and cruel, ordered Sandor to stand guard over his betrothed, Sansa, when she prayed in the old godswood. In his mind it was an amusing sort of humiliation; forcing his dog to protect the very woman whom, only a short time ago, openly _mocked_ him for all to see. The clever little bird, shrewdly appealed to the King’s ego; playing the role of the terrified young maiden whom, having learned her _lesson,_ now feared being left alone with the dreadful Hound. The boy King's arrogance, and the Queen Regent’s distraction with the coming war, ensured they underestimated their enemies’ competence. It was an advantage neither could resist.   
  
Their clandestine meetings, as frequent as they were, were entirely innocent. As much as Sandor desired to taste her lips, to run his fingers through her fiery hair, he knew it was too much a risk. So they refrained, focussing entirely on their plots and plans, with only the briefest of reprises permitted. After a lifetime of rejection even the simplest gestures of affection; the light brush of fingers, lingering glances, hidden smiles, all filled Sandor’s belly with fire. Only his love for Sansa, and the need to ensure her safety, gave him the strength necessary to restrain his desires. If anyone was aware of their affections no one ever spoke of it. Even his brothers within the kingsguard held their tongues; more out of fear, than respect for him.   
  
With dragons in all the right pockets, and proper allies made, Sansa’s escape was certain to be a success. She would slip away into the night, while he, the King’s hound, would be personally sent to hunt her down. Any who joined him for the hunt would most certainly be killed off, one way or another, leaving only Sandor left to locate her. Upon joining Sansa at their meeting place, they would not return to King’s Landing, rather they would continue their journey north where the little bird would be reunited with the remnants of her pack; her brother Robb and Lady Stark. Perhaps along the way they would find one of her godswoods, and an old priest willing enough to perform the rites of marriage. Then the future would truly be theirs.   
  
For a time it seemed that everything was falling into place until one event nearly destroyed it all: the battle of Black Water Bay.   
  
Sandor knew not the late hour when he staggered into the little bird’s room. He was drunker than he had ever been in all of his seventeen years. The battle he had endured was the fiercest fight he had ever fought. Only cowards fought with fire, so it came as no surprise that it was the Lannisters’ trademark weapon of choice. He could still hear the echo of his fellow warrior’s screams. Just as he could almost see their bodies, being consumed and devoured by wildfire reflected in every shadow that danced in the dimly lit hallways. He had lost nearly all his men during the hellish battle, even Stranger turned tail and ran. The Hound could not blame the giant courser. He should have done the same sooner instead of fighting on like the loyal dog they expected him to be.   
  
Shuddering at the weight of his memories, both from childhood and the evening’s events, Sandor collapsed on Sansa’s bed. It was not the first time he had found himself in her bedchambers; he knew it would be his last. He meant only to clear his head, to breathe her soft scent and catch his breath. As soon as his head fell on her pillow he was fast asleep, lost to sweet dreams of his red-headed beauty.   
  
‘Sandor.’  
  
‘Sandor, wake-up! You must wake-up!’   
  
It was the sound of Sansa’s voice that drew him back to consciousness. Stirring awake, he murmured her name, half asleep and entirely drunk. ‘Little bird. I knew you’d come,’ he slurred.   
  
‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered. Realizing then that he was no longer dreaming, Sandor’s eyes snapped open as he sat up a little too quickly causing the room to spin. ‘Is Stannis winning? What has happened? What brought you here?’ she pressed on in concern. Reaching for the flagon of wine he had taken from a squire, Sandor took a long drink as his memories returned with a rush.   
  
‘I only know who’s lost. Me,’ he growled in frustration. ‘Bloody dwarf. Should have killed him. Years ago,’ he muttered to himself. Feeling Sansa’s eyes on him, Sandor glanced up to meet her gaze. The fires outside of her window cast an eerie green glow about her features; it made her hair look as though it were of wildfire as well.   
  
‘What do you mean? I heard that he’s dead,’ Sansa asked drawing him back to the present.  
  
Sandor gave a derisive snort in reply. ‘Dead? No. Bugger that. I don’t want him dead. I want him burned,’ he said finishing the last of his wine. ‘If the gods are good, they’ll burn him, but we won’t be here to see. We’ll be long gone,’ he concluded, placing the empty flagon back on the table by her bed.   
  
Even this far from the battle, Sandor could almost hear the sound of his soldiers screams as they were burned alive. In his mind’s eye he could almost see his dying comrades’ burning bodies in the greenish shadows of Sansa’s room. Instantly, he was that little boy whose face was kissed by the seven hells. As his mind descended into a state of paralyzing fear, Sandor felt his thoughts scatter. He spoke not a word, it was not necessary; she understood what he could not say. Silently, Sansa wrapped her arms around him and a thousand thoughts were expressed without a word spoken. Sandor did not know how long he remained wrapped in the warmth of her arms while she gently sang to him a song so beautiful. Slowly his fears faded, as the frightened boy returned to being a young man.  
  
‘Little bird,’ he whispered. He was only vaguely aware of his tears as she gently cupped his face in her hands, and kissed his scarred lips.   
  
‘I know we must leave tonight,’ she whispered still holding him near, ‘but where can we go?’  
  
‘Away from here. Somewhere, anywhere, that’s not burning,’ he rasped. ‘Beyond the Iron Gate for a start. North somewhere, I suppose,’ he paused, considering his next words. ‘I could take you home, back to Winterfell.’ That had been their original plan, until he walked out on his masters. Everything had gone to the seven hells; he had to believe there was still a slim chance that they could make it.   
  
‘But the queen’s closed up Maegor’s, and the city gates are shut as well,’ Sansa warned.   
  
‘Not for us. I have my white cloak. Anyone asks I’ll say the King has ordered me to take you to safety,’ he said. ‘Any man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he’s on fire,’ he added with a bitter laugh. Sandor grew serious as he held her gaze. ‘I will keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me. No one will hurt you again, I’ll kill them if they try,’ he promised. One look in Sansa’s eyes revealed that she did not doubt his words.   
  
‘Gods willing it won’t come to that,’ she said as she gave him a squeeze before rising to her feet. There was no need for further explanation; they both knew that Sandor was in no condition to properly fight. Collecting a plain satchel that she had kept hidden, Sansa filled it with items necessary for the long journey that lay ahead.   
  
With her satchel, his tourney winnings, and his courser Stranger; found in his stall attacking a couple of thieves trying to claim him for their own; they departed quietly into the blood-soaked night.   
  
With the past in ashes, and the future uncertain, Sandor could not say what would lie ahead in the days to come. Gods willing they would stumble upon one of his little bird’s godswoods, and a priest willing to marry them. Until then, whatever was to come, they would face it together.   
  
For the first time in their lives, the future was theirs to claim. Despite the Lannisters, the coming winter, and all the dangers that lay ahead, so long as he had Sansa by his side, Sandor could not be happier for it. What once was believed to be little more than a cruel jape had become the most important and greatest gift of his young life.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's note:** And so we have reached the end of Part 1 =)  
>  Thank you littlebirdhound for inspiring me with this prompt and for being so encouraging about it. Thank you for letting take this and run! =D And to onborrowedwings thank you for taking time out of your crazy schedule to ensure I do this piece and our players in it proper justice =)  
> Finally a huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read my tale and for sticking it out til the end of Part 1. Your constant support and encouragement has never ceased to make my day =) I only hope that you'll continue to enjoy this tale as it continues...
> 
> And so begins Part 2!


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